Magdalene
by Eleanor394
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a difficult and, at times, sinister character; his colleagues find him obnoxious, his clients find him intimidating, but Maggie Wilson just finds him tiresome. So, why is she sticking around? (This is the first chapter of a multi-chapter fic. I really love the world and character of Sherlock Holmes so I shall try my best to keep as loyal to him as possible!)


At first glance, any other person would have deduced that Magdalene Wilson was a fairly average young woman with long flyaway hair and a gentle, easy smile. She was a self-confessed wall flower; nothing of her appearance would leave much of an impression on the everyday passer-by. Unless that passer-by were Sherlock Holmes and there was nothing 'everyday' about him at all.

When Maggie first stepped into the hall of 221B Baker Street, London, Sherlock Holmes had a summary of her life-story in less than a minute. She was 21, perhaps 22, although her below average height prevented her from looking it; she was slim, wore chipped polish on bitten nails and blinked too often. She was a nervous person; her weight loss was sudden as she had not had time to buy new clothes to accommodate for her smaller stature, and the chipped nail varnish and poorly kept nails conveyed anxiety, most likely on going, and a busy lifestyle. Her hair was long and windswept, the deep ebony colour of it giving her a wild look, pleasantly complimenting the calm intelligence of her eyes; such a vibrant blue that Sherlock had never come across before.

Light freckles sprinkled a delicate nose, contrasted by the sharp high cheekbones that didn't quite suit her otherwise understated features, clearly another result of the weight loss. She was pale, most likely due to some sort of dietary deficiency, and the skin beneath those ferocious eyes was stretched and lavender blue; this, coupled with the slim, suggested to Sherlock that she experienced mild insomnia most nights a week.

She had a gentle blemish beneath her left eye, perhaps a scar from childhood or a birth-mark, and a small freckle darkened the right corner of her lower lip, which was currently caught beneath her teeth. Around her slender, porcelain neck she wore a chain with a small silver cross as the pendant, though Sherlock knew that she wasn't religious- she had cursed Jesus to the high heavens as she caught her toe on the skirting board, seconds after dragging her case into the flat. Therefore, he believed the cross to be an heirloom or at least of some sentimental worth to the young woman.

And yet, despite the many signs that this young woman was weak or at least overly-impressionable, Sherlock found confidence in her stance and straightened back, her unwavering gaze as she watched him analyse her… The unique style of her clothing and other items of jewellery suggested independence and individualism. She had a strong, resilient character.

When Sherlock Holmes first laid eyes upon her he knew that she was something different.

"Are you going to stand there gawking at me all day or would you like to show me to my room?"

"I wouldn't call it 'gawking'; I much prefer the term 'observing'."

The girl snorted in response, once again suggesting a cynical mind. "Is that what you say to all the girls?" She rolled her eyes. "They warned me about you, they told me you were weird."

"They?" He quizzed with a severe frown.

"The neighbours, the guys in the café as I was signing the papers, the cab driver who drove me here; everyone. They told me you were smart, but weird; one of those genius-types with blacked out windows and month-old milk still in the fridge. But you don't look anything but lonely to me."

Sherlock did not enjoy being doubted and all sense of welcome drifted from his mind as a sardonic smirk twisted his lips. "Your name is Maggie; what is it an abbreviation of?"

His question was met with an abrupt scowl.

"I don't see why that's important. Which room is mine?"

"Second door on the left, just off the lounge."

"Thank you." And with a tired sigh, she lifted her cases and followed his directions.

Several hours later, as Sherlock was facing the large window of the lounge, gently tuning his violin, Maggie emerged from her new bedroom, having unpacked the majority of her belongings and satisfied for the moment with how the room felt. She could vaguely make out the dark outline of her new flatmate, his silhouette defined by the dim light of the winter's evening outside.

Confused as to why he was standing in the dark, she flicked on the light but couldn't miss the flash of annoyance in his somber face.

To lighten the atmosphere, and despite her undecided opinion of the man, she took several steps closer to his turned back, eyes on the instrument beneath his chin.

"You play?"

"I do." He did not seem dazed by her sudden appearance, nor did he turn to address her, merely continuing with his arpeggio scales. His stoic stance was aggravating; the squareness of his shoulders conveyed stubbornness and, in some ways, reminded her of the children in the nursery. Unlike the children at the nursery, however, Maggie had no time for fully-grown men behaving like infants and so she was dismayed to find that she was going to be living with one for the foreseeable, although hopefully relatively short, future.

That being said, she refused to allow her strange new flat-mate to intimidate her; Maggie stepped into the kitchen and boiled the kettle, the gradual whistling of the appliance helping to drown out the violin's squeal. She considered offering to make Sherlock a drink but changed her mind once he indignantly began to play louder over the sound of the kettle, the strings of the instrument screeching in protest.

With determined happiness, Maggie searched the small and crowded kitchen for coffee and a mug, trying not to appear too taken aback upon finding the majority of the cupboards empty, dust being the only thing to occupy them.

"Top shelf on the left, closest to the fridge."

She frowned at his barked instructions but reached on tip toes for the only clean, yet still stained, mug and the jar of instant coffee. On opening the fridge for the milk, she was assaulted with the most ghastly stench of mouldering food, her eyes watering as she slammed the door shut immediately.

"We're out of milk…" He commented, strolling into the kitchen, violin and bow still in hand.

"You're out of fresh milk, you mean!" Maggie exclaimed, "What is in that fridge?"

He seemed not to hear her, "I'll ask Mrs Hudson to fetch some in tomorrow."

"Excuse me but that fridge is disgusting, it isn't safe to keep anything in there."

Sherlock blinked, "Well, that's very rude of you."

Enraged, Maggie stuttered a few nonsensical sounds, before deciding to have her coffee black and marching back to her new bedroom.

The week that passed by had Maggie so busy that she was very rarely in the flat and any time that she was, she was almost always tied to her desk. Searching for jobs in London was beginning to seem futile and she was weary of being turned away from every establishment. She had been forced to look elsewhere than her chosen field and was now handing in applications at every opportunity, no matter how degrading or tedious the job, Maggie was desperate to be earning; living out of her savings account made her feel guilty, knowing how long it had taken to build it up, and she hated to be cheating herself out of what the money was actually meant for.

Her life at 221b Baker Street was hardly becoming more comfortable either with the constant pops and bangs coming from her flatmate's study late into the evening and not to mention the strange array of visitors at any hour of the day. She was almost thankful for the agonising amount of time she now spent in the nearest library every day, trawling through job vacancy web sites and relentlessly tweaking her curriculum vitae. She wasn't really sure what it was that Sherlock Homes actually did for a living because he never seemed to leave the flat for longer than a couple of hours at a time and she couldn't imagine him working anywhere as mundane as an office; there was also the question of who on earth would employ the bizarre man? To Maggie at least, he resembled a lunatic the majority of the time. She wasn't even sure if he had any friends, let alone colleagues, because his demeanour was just so surly and his tone so often curt.

The second weekend after Maggie had moved in, having been there just over a week, Sherlock tested her patience more than she could stand. She knew it was wrong to snap at people and she knew it was desperately inappropriate to argue with the person she was living with but the line he crossed was just too personal for her to ignore. It was the first conversation the two had shared since Sherlock had "welcomed" his new flatmate and so Maggie had tried to make an effort, hoping that his discourteous manner was simply a result of being shy or at least unaccustomed to living with another person.

She had strolled into the lounge on Saturday evening, still wearing her pyjamas and dressing gown having decided to take the day off from her usual library visits to lounge in comfort in her room with a good book, to see Sherlock facing the window yet again strumming his beloved violin, as he had on that first day. Maggie no longer minded his habit of picking up the instrument, seeing that it seemed to calm him when he was particularly wound up about something, however it had now become custom for him to play with esteemed vigour at three o'clock most mornings. But, again, she was eager to refrain from falling out with him and so she had invested in some ear plugs.

"Good evening," she had announced brightly, heading straight for the kitchen, "Tea or coffee?"

She was met with a grunt and rolled her eyes. Mrs Hudson had brought up a cup of tea for him yesterday evening, after he had locked himself away in his study yet again, and so Maggie learnt that he took two sugars and plenty of milk, two pints having been bought fresh just yesterday.

Five minutes later, she brought the cup and saucer out to him, leaving it on the table as he continued with his arpeggios.

"How has your day been?" She asked after a few moments of awkward silence, "I don't think I've heard you all day, did you go out?"

She saw him take a deep breath and furrow his brow into a scowl, "Would you mind? I'm working."

His tone was vicious and Maggie's eyes widened in surprise.

"I'm sorry, I thought you were just plucking aimlessly on that violin of yours." She replied defensively.

"This is not aimless, I am concentrating," he spat, "and I will thank you not to distract me."

The young woman was so bewildered that she lost her voice for a moment, staring at the tall black figure with an astonished gaze. Mortification soon rose, however, and Maggie found herself blushing with anger at the rudeness of this man.

"Excuse me?!"

"You heard what I said," Sherlock Holmes span around with a ferocious glare, fists clenched around the neck of the instrument and the handle of the bow that he now neglected, "I am trying to think in peace yet you insist on talking; your mundane and useless chatter is hindering me from concentrating on something far more important and of far greater meaning than your average little mind can comprehend. Do leave me alone."

The last sentence was forced out through gritted teeth and so startled was Maggie that she could hardly contain herself as she responded in an outraged and with similar venom.

"I don't know who you think you are, Mr Holmes but I find you very cruel and hateful; how dare you insult me when you don't know anything about me? I'd be impressed if you even remembered my name…" He cut her off with a horrible smirk, as though accepting a challenge she certainly hadn't issued.

"Maggie Wilson… an abbreviation of Magdalene, I assume; an interesting choice of name for a religious background such as yours."

"What?" Maggie was startled at the verbal abuse she had received, but he continued with a relishing and nasty smile, enjoying her discomfort.

"Oh they really didn't like you, did they? What happened; were they desperate for a son, or were you the unwanted child, an anomaly in their perfect little family?"

The young woman faltered, staring with disbelief at this ridiculous man as he tore down her defences, armed with a barbed smirk. Who was he, and how could he say such things? Had she mentioned her family… had she told him anything about herself at all? She couldn't recall it, and she would certainly have remembered meeting such an obnoxious character if she had.

"Have you been talking to Matthew?" She stammered out.

"Your brother, I presume. That puts you down as the unwanted child, then."

Maggie was floored. Hurt and anger flooded her senses and she found frustrated tears brimming at her eyelids. In any other situation, the woman would have hated to give in to an assault such as this but the urge to defend herself, to prove him wrong in any way, was overwhelming and the words were spilling out of her before she could pull them back.

"I was wanted! At least, at first."

At this, she saw his eyes roll.

"You're wrong," she hissed through trembling lips, spurred on in indignation as he returned the violin to his chin and turned back to the gloomy sky outside of the window, as though bored by her, "I was going to _complete_ their 'perfect little family', the four of us would have been happy." She wasn't sure why she was telling him this; she had nothing to prove to this haughty and despicable character, and certainly did not want his sympathy, if someone so supercilious was even capable of sympathy. But she told him, nonetheless, and, as his arpeggios slowly softened, she began to calm down.

"My mother died during childbirth," The words were heavy on her tongue, the old ache of her childhood returning, "Something went wrong and she had severe bleeding. There was nothing anyone could do; the doctors carried out endless tests and tried everything to find out what had happened, but my father blamed me from day one… I was an unexpected pregnancy, a happy accident I suppose, but if I hadn't happened my mother would still be alive; that was what he thought, anyway." She took a small pause, to clear her tightening throat and rub at her weary eyes, "I was supposed to be named Mary, after her, but my father couldn't stand the thought of me taking her name, not after what I had done. So instead he christened me Magdalene, in the hope that the Church could rid me of my 'evil' as Jesus had done so many years ago." She chuckled darkly, gaze fixed upon the threadbare carpet, "It clearly didn't work."

A brief silence fell upon the darkening room as daylight sank beneath the heavy mid-winter clouds. Sherlock Holmes stood with stoic indifference, his stance yet to change; Maggie's words could have fallen upon deaf ears, and so she would have thought, were it not for the slight crease in the iron man's brow. She threw her head up to focus her full impassioned stare upon the back of his head; he could feel the intensity of it prickling at his neck.

"My father was a bitter and resentful man until the hour of his death, Mr Holmes, and it is only now in the years after his passing that I can truly feel free; no longer must I live beneath the judgemental eyes of a stifling family. Finally, I can enjoy the right to be myself, and I will be damned if I walked away from a disparaging household, only to walk into another."

Her tone was quiet and low, melding with the dim glow of a corner lamp, though her words spoke volumes. With little more than a turn of his head, Sherlock lowered his eyes to hers; no longer were they glazed with tears, the gateway to uncertain ground, now they were intense and ardent. Maggie raised a small smile from the corners of her lips, a peace-offering.

"Goodnight, Mr Holmes." She said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Sherlock will suffice."

"Then goodnight Sherlock."

"Yes."

Sherlock remained at the window for a few minutes more, his genius mind whirring over the girl's words and a strange and unfamiliar sensation spread through him. This feeling was cold and made the hairs on his hands stand erect, his ears blushing slightly.

"Ah, yes," he murmured to himself, "Guilt."


End file.
